


bleachers only hold (thunder only grows)

by disfellowship



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Gay Billy Hargrove, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, contains: unsubtle not-so-gratuitous pop culture references, the age-old Billy is Good at English trope, they're both kind of assholes in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22151647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disfellowship/pseuds/disfellowship
Summary: “Right, so like. Early action deadlines for Purdue were two weeks ago,” Harrington pauses, anticipating a reaction. Billy likes how he shifts, uncomfortably, when it doesn’t come. “Anyway, I got two months till the regular decision deadline.”“Fascinating,” and like, Billy’s the senior, he knows that, he’salsoapplying for colleges. Obviously not Purdue, because he’s trying to get as far away from the motherfucking Heartland as he can, butstill.Harrington rolls his eyes, hip cocked in his skinny Levi’s as he continues, “Apparently, you’re prettyfirein English, so. I wanna pay you to write the essay for me.”Or: Billy gets hired to commit a minor ethical offense for Steve Harrington. Madness ensues.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	bleachers only hold (thunder only grows)

**Author's Note:**

> title from American Boyfriend - Kevin Abstract

This is not about Steve Harrington.

This is about Billy Hargrove.

(So maybe it is a little bit about Steve Harrington, too.)

It’s about Harrington the way basketball and menthols and Ray Bans and Member’s Only are, vague but thoroughly tainted.

Harrington’s graduated, now, pretty much out of Billy’s orbit if not for carpools to the arcade and watching the kids at the pool.

Billy still knows about him, though, has seen him at the mall slinging ice cream with the weird, soft goth lesbian in the school band, _tiny_ fucking sailor suit _on_.

Watches his snaps _occasionally_ , Tommy H. speeding down an empty road at four in the morning as Harrington films himself. Blasting Gambino and singing _that_ part extra loud, looking at the camera all like, _rich kid, asshole, paint me as a villain_.

Sometimes, he’ll create a private story and put Billy on it, for whatever reason, just a black screen and the text box reading _hmu if u got addy_ that’ll disappear in thirty minutes _tops_ , once somebody does, indeed, hit him up.

Those are particularly infuriating to Billy, because it’s like, since he lives in Old Cherry Road, Harrington assumes he deals? And _why_ does he even need Adderall when all he does with his life is scoop ice cream and drain his trust fund?

And then there are these _other_ times.

Like today, Billy posted that he’s selling his old Xbox to pay for repairs on his car, which he specifies in his posts, because there’s plenty of bitches in Hawkins who’ve taken a joyride in the Camaro that should be thankful enough to at _least_ retweet?

Anyway, not even _five_ minutes later, Harrington posts a picture of him holding a PS4 controller, Mario Deluxe on his flat screen. Bong sitting by his foot, barely in the shot, big bag of Doritos on his lap and that weird, curly haired kid tagged, _@dust1nhenderson_.

There’s just no way that’s a coincidence, right?

And, well, Harrington doesn’t know it yet, but. Today is _not_ the day he wants to pick to get on Billy’s nerves.

Currently, Billy’s scrolling through Instagram — which is how he comes across Harrington’s post in the first place, sits there watching the comments appear for a _while_ — with a bag of frozen mixed vegetable soup pressed to the side of his face.

His dad got him pretty good, last night.

A matter of angle, really, and a well placed 28 karat wedding ring that split the thin skin at the corner of his mouth. All because Billy didn’t want to go to the store and get more marshmallows for Maxine’s _disgusting_ sweet potatoes.

Long story fucking short, he’s itching under a baby blue sweater Susan knit him two years ago, because _it makes his eyes pop!_ , squeezed into the only pair of dress shoes he owns, because he’s being forced to attend Max’s nerdy little Friendsgiving at Joyce Byers’ house.

So, yeah. Harrington better fucking _watch_ it, tonight, or Billy won’t take it easy on him like he did last time.

Once it’s fully, undeniably defrosted, Billy gets up to put the bag of mixed veggies in the kitchen sink.

He makes sure to grimace as he peers over Max’s shoulder at her dish.

“Hurry the _fuck_ up,” he warns, brushing back past her to plop down on the couch. “I wanna get this over with.”

“I can’t believe he’s making you come,” it sounds like she’s saying it to herself more than to Billy, annoyed but not at the injustice of his punishment, just at his mere _presence_.

Billy can’t fucking believe it, either.

He definitely does not have the best history with the Byers family _or_ that house, and.

“Is Harrington coming?”, he just has to _know_.

“ _Why_?” Billy cranes his neck, gives her a mean side look. Max huffs, “ _Yes_ , he’s coming. Can you maybe not—”

“Oh, _absolutely_ I can, Maxine,” Billy kicks his boots up on the coffee table, crossing his ankles. Practically _hears_ her eye roll. “What’s the fucking hold up, over there?”

Max mumbles something about _letting it cool_ , so Billy helps her pile it all into a plastic container, ends up having to put it in layers, like a sweet potato and marshmallow lasagna, which.

Sounds awfully Friendsgiving-y, the opposite of endearing to Billy, which is probably what all those fuckers are going for, today.

They cram into the Camaro, Max on the passenger seat balancing her Tupperware on her lap and ripping an e-cig, blowing the smoke into an open backpack at her feet.

Billy knows he’s not expected, tonight. Sees it clear as day when he pulls up to the Byers and struggles to find a parking spot in their driveway.

He spends embarrassingly too long trying to make one out of nothing, maneuvering between a tree and a fucking minivan for what feels like forever.

At some point, Max snatches the aux cord to put on this ennerving song that’s just instrumental, some classical shit that makes Billy’s skin crawl. She’s laughing her ass off, JUUL shaking between her clenched teeth.

“What the fuck is that, Maxine? Is that the Sonic cartoon song?”

“What?” she looks at her phone screen. “No — actually, it might be? _Adventures of Sonic?_ But no, it’s called _In The Hall Of_ —”

“I don’t actually give a fuck,” Billy yanks out his keys once they’re finally parked.

“Lucas showed it to me, he’s learning to play it on the ‘cello.”

Billy shoves his hands in his pockets, climbing out of the car, the cold wind biting at the skin underneath the wool of his sweater.

He’s not wearing anything else, still not fucking used to how cold it gets in Indiana.

The gravel cracks under them as they make their way to the house, and Billy can already hear voices, can hear laughter and music. Sees fucking Christmas lights and wants to _die_.

As soon as they’re inside, Max shoves the sweet potatoes at him and tells him they’ll be at the den, which Billy suspects is just the regular living room, because, like.

He’s kind of _been_ here, before.

So, he makes himself at home, goes into the kitchen to set the food down and finds Harrington there, leaning against the counter and swigging a beer, keeping it pressed against his lips.

It’s stupid how Billy’s whole mood shifts, how he feels suddenly so awake, so aware of the prickle of fabric on his chest, of how _hungry_ he is.

Harrington doesn’t notice Billy, just keeps staring right ahead at the refrigerator, unblinking.

“Harrington,” he’s like, dumping the Tupperware next to the green bean salad, by the sink.

Again, Billy knows he’s not expected tonight.

Which kind of makes this first interaction with Harrington a little. _Unsatisfying_ , maybe.

And, well, no one knows how to get Billy his fill like Harrington, the way he hates Billy so fucking fervently, will roll his huge brown eyes at every word out of Billy’s mouth.

But today, Harrington just. Barely even reacts, like he knew Billy was coming, like he didn’t even _care_.

“Oh, hey, man,” he goes, moving lazily as he turns towards Billy.

Billy steps closer. Pops a green bean in his mouth. Asks, “‘Sup?”, feels fucking _lame_ about it.

Harrington smiles.

“Saw your story, today,” he takes another sip, body slanting further. “How much do you need? For your whip?”

And, like, _ew_ , but okay, “Like 80 bucks. Was gonna ask a hundred for the Xbox.”

Harrington shrugs, and Billy had originally thought he was interested in buying the thing or something, but the whole situation is just starting to seem more like _small talk_ , which Billy is definitely not illing to _handle_ , tonight.

“I’ll give you two.”

He frowns, and it’s annoying how Harrington won’t fucking _look_ at him, too busy tweaking the can tab back and forth.

“Two?”

“Two hundred,” Harrington clarifies, nonchalant.

Billy stares at him some more.

“Shit’s not worth that much, man,” he refrains from pointing out Harrington already has a videogame, shiny slick PS4, because for all intents and purposes, he’s not aware of that.

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Harrington laughs, and it’s instant, the way Billy prickles, starts holding himself straighter and square-ish. “I don’t want it.”

“The fuck _do_ you want, then? ‘Cause if you’re looking for a charity case, I mean, literally just _look around_ —”

“ _Chill_ , dude, Jesus,” Harrington tosses the snapped off tab right down the garbage disposal, like an _asshole_. “I’m not giving you two hundred dollars. I’m _hiring_ you.”

“Yeah, in your fucking dreams,” Billy turns to leave before he makes Harrington eat his fucking beer can, but then Harrington’s grabbing him, fingertips touching bare skin beneath the gaping stitches of Susan’s sloppy knitting.

“Can you just— _listen_? It’s honest work,” which is evidently not true, but Billy’s not really an honest work _er_ , so.

“This better be good, Harrington. I’m feeling a little _objectified_ , here,” it doesn’t really make sense, but Billy’s pretty sure Harrington doesn’t know what the fuck that means, anyway.

“Right, so like. Early action deadlines for Purdue were two weeks ago,” Harrington pauses, anticipating a reaction. Billy likes how he shifts, uncomfortably, when it doesn’t come. “Anyway, I got two months till the regular decision deadline.”

“ _Fascinating_ ,” and like, Billy’s the senior, he knows that, he’s _also_ applying for colleges. Obviously not Purdue, because he’s trying to get as far away from the motherfucking Heartland as he can, but _still_.

Harrington rolls his eyes, hip cocked in his skinny Levi’s as he continues, “ _Apparently_ , you’re pretty _fire_ in English, so. I wanna pay you to write the essay for me.”

Billy stifles a laugh, licks at the scab on the corner of his lips. Harrington looks forlorn, maybe a little mischievous as he waits for Billy’s response.

“Yeah, alright, _Olivia Jade_ —“

“Oh, fuck off, it’s _so_ not like that—“

“Uh,” Jonathan Byers pipes up from the doorway. Billy tries not to wonder how long he’d been standing there. “Max says it’s time to serve.”

Billy’s gorging on the spinach and artichoke dip when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

He’s planning on ignoring it, but then Harrington’s kicking his shin from across the table, wiggling his eyebrows manically with half a roasted carrot hanging from his lips.

Billy winces, takes his phone out and sees the notification instantly, _Steve H. paid you $20.00 - consider it!!! - Your Venmo balance is now $78.13._

He lets out a breath so forceful his nostrils flare, sends Steve the money back _instantly_ and locks his phone. Puts his head down and gets to work on the pork chop in his plate.

Another notification pops up, fucking seconds later, _Steve H. paid you $30.00 - it’s thanksgiving, wheres ur holiday spirit - Your Venmo balance is now $88.13._

He Venmos Harrington those thirty dollars and looks up, only to find him _deeply_ engrossed in conversation with Nancy Wheeler, so.

Billy lets himself get distracted, after that.

He drinks three beers and even _talks_ at one point, arguing with the older Byers about the book they’re reading in Lit. When he goes to check his phone again, innocently, just wanting to know the time, there it is.

_Steve H. paid you $50.00 - i can do this all day - Your Venmo balance is now $108.13._

And, fuck. It’s pretty _tempting_.

Billy pays him five cents, writes in the message, _im not giving that back_.

Harrington sends another $50, all like, _lets call it up front payment_.

Billy just made a hundred dollars. He still has his Xbox. And hasn’t even _done_ anything, yet.

Harrington is astronomically stupid and filthy rich. Billy is fucking _good_ at English and a big fan of money, so.

It might work.

He stares until Harrington notices, gives him a small nod to seal the deal.

 _What’s the worst that could happen_ , his brain keeps supplying, and Billy’s gotten so good at neglecting the _worst possible outcome_ scenarios in his life, it only takes a fourth beer to feel at ease with his decision.

He tries not to look again, but he knows Harrington’s fucking _beaming_ , across from him.

To Harrington’s right, Nancy and Max are having an annoyingly lively discussion about feminism, even though Billy’s pretty sure they’re just angrily _agreeing_ with each other.

Little Wheeler dug out a speaker from _somewhere_ and has 2000s R&B with the bass boosted playing from his lap, Byers is taking polaroids of Sinclair and the weird toothless kid, and everyone else just seems fucking _entertained_.

When bowl cut asks his friends if they can play D&D, Billy almost cries with joy.

“Thirty minutes and you’re done, Maxine,” he calls from the hallway, not loving the way Sinclair has her by the shoulders as they walk into the living room.

“Yo,” Harrington finds him quick, Byers dogging his step. “We’re going outside to smoke. You wanna come?”

Billy makes sure to look past Harrington and straight at Jonathan when he goes, “Lead the way, amigo.”

So he does, ushers them out of the house before he closes the door and bunches up the threadbare welcome mat on the few inches underneath it, to keep the smell from coming in.

They sit down on the porch, Harrington squeezed in the middle and holding an Altoid tin. He takes a joint from inside and puts it between his lips.

“Light?” he goes, looking straight down, almost going cross-eyed.

Billy watches as Byers fumbles for a lighter, patting himself down.

“Fucking brat,” Billy mutters, slapping his fake Zippo on the palm of Harrington’s outstretched hand. “Don’t _slobber_.”

Harrington huffs, glares at Billy out of the corner of his eye and sucks on the joint as he lights it, cherry end coming to life with a spark and a crackle.

“Fuck you,” he says once he's passed it to Byers.

Smiling, Billy goes, “So, Byers,” turning towards the other two.

He absolutely _revels_ in the way Jonathan perks up at the sound of his name, the lines on his forehead smoothing out in attention.

“Hm?” Byers hums.

Harrington looks at Billy, too, curious and transparent.

“You finish the book yet?” he asks, continuing their talk from before. Byers nods, takes one last puff of the weed and passes it to Billy. “What’d you think of that carousel scene?”

Harrington pipes up, pitchy, “Why, is it _dirty_?”

He gets ignored.

Byers turns to Billy, clears his throat before he goes, “Uh, I mean, I thought it was good symbolism. A bit on the nose, but. I guess it makes sense considering his character arc.”

“ _What_ character arc?” Billy asks, smile wide around the joint pinched between his lips.

Byers fucking _laughs_ , then, this open, novel sound that makes his whole face wrinkle up.

“That’s true. I mean, the way carousels go round and round and round... It symbolizes the way Holden’s having the same experiences, over and over, and never maturing.”

He’s pretty sure Byers keeps talking, and Billy’s eyes never drift, but the rest of his body is finely attuned to the uneasy shift of Harrington’s, beside him, the way he keeps watching them in conversation, humming low like he wants to contribute but _can’t_.

“Okay, but have you considered,” Billy’s getting fucking bored of this, if he’s being honest, but he can’t stop himself when he goes, “The fact that Holden _doesn’t_ get on the carousel shows that he’s finally growing up?”

“Huh,” Byers is like a fucking cartoon character, churning over Billy’s words. “I guess you’re right. But what about the gold ring? His weariness of it?”

Billy shrugs, taking another hit.

“He’s weary because kids fall off the horse when they reach for the ring, and he doesn’t want that to happen to his sister,” Byers nods, focused. “But that’s the whole point, he has to accept that children _will_ fall, and let them grow up. There’s nothing he can _do_.”

“That’s _bullshit_ ,” Harrington chimes in, staring down at a half naked cheerleader hugging a stuffed tiger on his Insta feed. _Game day,_ the caption says, followed by a bunch of green emojis.

“Excuse me?” Billy asks him.

“Yeah, like,” Harrington licks his lips, looks up at Billy lazily and plucks the weed from between his fingers. “The fact that he’d just _let_ her fall off? It’s bullshit.”

“He _has_ to,” Billy goes, “Kids will be kids, it’s just how life _works_ , Harrington.”

“Yeah, but if he can protect them, why _wouldn’t_ he?”

“Well,” Byers says in this little, quiet voice, just like his mom and brother, and Billy knows he’s going to _hate_ whatever comes next. “He _does_ want to be a catcher in the rye. It’s… literally the name of the—“

“Yes, Byers, I fucking _know_ that,” Billy starts, but finds out he doesn’t really want to go anywhere with it. “I _know_ it.”

“And I haven’t even read the book,” Harrington gloats, pulling on the joint. “ _Or_ seen the movie.”

Billy bites his tongue to keep from saying anything else and just waits until the weed makes its way back to him, stretching his legs out onto the cold, damp pavement. Eventually, Byers gives some lame excuse to get out of smoking another, going back inside to get Nancy Wheeler alone, probably, and it’s so blatant that Billy almost feels _bad_ for Harrington.

“Fuck him,” Billy goes, “Let’s light it.”

Harrington takes one more joint out of his cute little candy tin, some cone shaped pre-rolled shit he probably got at the country club. Makeshift filter and all.

“So,” Harrington says around a mouthful of smoke, sounding funny. “You’ll do it? You’ll help me write it?”

“I’ll fucking write it _for_ you, dumbass.”

Harrington’s laughter is almost constant, now, a low, buzzing sound. He’s swaying, brushing against Billy occasionally.

 _Mumbling_ , all like, “That’s fucking great, man, _great_ doing business with you.”

They spend too fucking long, outside, smoke the whole entire thing down to a roach, and Billy would never admit it, but he’s fucking _freezing_ , feeling his buzz percolating through him as he exchanges heat with the icy ground below.

He’s almost suggesting they go back into the house when someone swings open the door.

“What the—oh, come _on_ , Billy,” Max is like, _instantly_ trying to haul him up like he needs her to, like she even could.

“Bitch, relax,” he gets up. “I’m _good_.”

“Is _he_?” curly hair lisps, pointing at a slanted Harrington, the fucking lightweight.

“Yeah, it’s just,” Billy shoves him by the shoulder, grips it hard so he doesn’t topple over. Harrington rests his head on Billy’s forearm, looking up at him with bleary eyes. “Just the holiday spirit.”

“Yup,” he agrees against the wool of Billy’s sleeve.

“Alright, then, let’s _go_ ,” Max says, beside him. “Mom texted.”

“Wait,” Harrington whines from the floor, pushing himself up with a wince on his face. He turns to Billy, “Tomorrow, we should, like. Meet up. To _brainstorm_.”

And Billy wants to sneer, say something like, _What brain?_ , but he can feel Max swinging nervously by his side, twisting her backpack strap.

“Yeah, man, how about I just—”

“Afternoon? I’ll pick you up,” Harrington goes, looking at Billy so expectantly, face all open and stuff, and it makes him fucking _uncomfortable_ , to know there’s people watching this happen.

“Uh. Fine, yeah. _Whatever_ ,” he decides. Lowers his voice to ask, “Just _text_ first.”

Harrington swallows loud, muttering a string of agreements like, “Oh, yeah, man, for sure. I _got_ you,” while getting dragged away by his little curly haired shadow back into the house.

In the Camaro, Billy feels Max’s gaze, ignores it as best he can as he grips the wheel tight, just regaining the feel in his fingers. He’s not high anymore, barely even was, to begin with, but he’s fucking _cold_ , and the heater in the Camaro doesn’t really work, like, _at all_ , and Max always says to him, _You’re not in California, anymore_ , and.

“Pick the music,” he shoves the aux cord towards her.

Max hesitates but she takes it, puts on some Kendrick, which isn’t even that bad, goes, “Have you listened to the track he did for _Black Panther_?”

Billy nods. Somehow knows Sinclair put her on Kenny’s shit, which.

He’d kill to see the name on _that_ playlist, but.

He also doesn’t want to know the reason why _LOVE_ by Kendrick Lamar is on it?

Because like, he’d really fucking _hate_ to have that song ruined for him, right now.

***

_so is this just like space travel but w/ daddy issues???_ , Max texts him from where she’s sitting, perched on the bean chair by the window sill.

They’re all watching a movie together, which, _God_ , definitely fucking beats Neil’s familial strolls around the neighborhood or early morning picnics he used to be into when Billy and Max were younger.

These days, Neil will settle for a sit down, home cooked meal and a movie session on Saturdays.

Susan got to pick, today, right after she made them lunch. The movie’s called _Ad_ _Astra_ , and Billy’s fairly certain she only chose it because Brad Pitt’s in it.

 _p much_ , he texts back. _GOD i miss the martian_

He hears Max snicker, fake leather squeaking under her weight her as she pulls both knees against her chest.

Billy’s eyes dart to his dad, then, because Neil _hates_ when people talk during movies. And, like, Billy’s not a fan of that, either, but it’s to the point where if you _cough_ , Neil’ll send you a dirty look.

He’s more tolerant of it at home, though, Billy’s gotta give him that. Probably because he didn’t pay for the movie and didn’t have to get his beer in a plastic cup.

 _nah u just miss matt damon_ , she sends.

And, actually, Billy can sympathize with Pitt’s character, who doesn’t know if he wants to blow up his dad’s ship or raid it to see his face for one last time, _then_ blow it up.

Or whatever his fucking whining is about.

Still, Matt Damon _is_ superior, no doubt, and Billy’s typing that out for Max with an embarrassing passion when Harrington’s name flashes at the top of his screen.

 _you free at 2?_ he’s asking.

Billy had momentarily forgotten about that, but sure, he’s free at two, swipes down on the notification and tells Harrington just that.

It’s cute that he thinks the reason Billy needs warning is because he’s too _busy_.

Maybe Harrington thinks he has someone over or whatever.

 _i wouldn’t be caught DEAD in an applebee’s_ , Max texts, _EVEN if it was on the moon_

Billy kind of stopped paying attention to the movie an hour ago, so he doesn’t even know what she’s talking about, but like, same.

He fucks around on his phone for a while, answers some DMs that have piled up. Gets sucked into one of those stupid Snapchat subscriptions and finds himself reading a VICE article.

He’s on number five on the list of _Ten Things You’ve Always Wanted to Ask a Pizza Delivery Guy_ when his dad gets up to leave for work.

Just, like, on instinct, Billy gets up, too, walks over to the kitchen and starts washing the dishes that have piled up in the sink.

 _Obviously_ , Max fucks off to her little corner of the house and Susan puts on _another_ film, so Billy gets to work, alone, sulky, chewing on a Twizzler.

He’s rinsing batter from a bowl when a car pulls up outside, and Billy can’t help the cold shiver that zips down his spine, like he was caught off-guard by it, even though he shouldn’t be, because he’s expecting Harrington, anyway.

Billy dries his hands off on his jeans and grabs his stuff, throwing Susan an excuse over his shoulder.

It’s perfect timing, apparently, because Harrington's already getting out of his car, as if he was preparing to walk up to Billy’s front step and ring the doorbell like a _gentleman_.

Harrington offers Billy a two-fingered wave when he spots him. By the passenger's side door, he gets down on one knee to mess with his hair, looking into the rearview mirror.

Billy takes long strides down his driveway until he reaches the tacky, maroon BMW. He notices it immediately, the dirt on all four tires, a dark, muddy red under a curtain of November frost.

“Hey, man,” Harrington says to his own reflection. “Ready to do this thing?”

“You’re a little _late_ , amigo,” he’s like, even though it’s only a quarter past two.

“Yeah, sorry. Dustin needed help with a film project.”

Billy looks up at Harrington, then, trying hard not to seem too interested when he asks, “And how, exactly, were _you_ any help?”

Harrington rolls his eyes at that.

He sinks down on his knee further, inspecting the mess on his tire and running a fingertip down the tread.

“He needed my car for, uh. Sound effects. Said he saw it online, like, _car ASMR_ or whatever.”

Billy feels insane, listening to that shit. Feels fucking _stupid_ , too, because he still doesn’t get it, but that’ll be the day where _he_ is the dumb one out of the two of them.

“And, what? You ran over some poor fucking—“

“ _Cranberries_ ,” Harrington supplies quickly, like he couldn’t bear fathom whatever Billy was going to say. “I ran over some cranberries. _Other_ berries, too.”

Harrington wipes the hair away from his face one last time before getting up. He opens the passenger door and looks at Billy, pleadingly, motioning to the big leather seat on the other side of his fingertips.

“ _Cranberries_ ,” Billy echoes just so he doesn’t seem too willing as he climbs into the car. He waits for Harrington to get in, too, before he presses, “What kinda sound do _those_ make?”

Harrington huffs, as if _everyone_ should know the answer to that, and shoves his key in the ignition.

There’s a lot of other keys jingling on the bunch, a round keychain Billy identifies as a baseball, and a metallic one that says _Daddy_ , in the shape of Mickey Mouse ears.

Billy’s recognizes it, some lame ass shit he’s seen at a Disneyland gift shop, or something. He has absolutely no idea why _Harrington_ has one of those, though.

“It’s not—he wanted to recreate the sound of _bones_ being crushed.”

The way it comes out of Harrington’s mouth is casual, cradled by the introductory notes to whatever track he just put on, this creamy, lo-fi beat that is just.

So predictable it’s not even _funny_.

“What the _fuck_ ,” it loses the force of a question halfway through. Billy shifts in his seat, spreading his legs wide and staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” Harrington throws an arm around the back of Billy’s headrest, twists his torso around until he has a clear enough view to reverse out of the driveway. “That’s why he needed the car, obviously, to crush shit. I kept telling him, like, _we can just stomp on it_ , but—“

“Stomp on _what_?” Billy asks the windshields, and feels himself go a little crazy, can’t believe he’s having this conversation, can’t believe who he’s having it _with_.

Steve makes a small, strangled sound on his next exhale as he gives a final struggle to maneuver his car into the road.

“I mean, to get the bone-y element, we used lots of different things,” Harrington jerks the stick roughly, car hiccuping as he pushes it into drive. “Uncooked pasta, those shell ones, you know? Even _carrots_.”

“Carrots.”

Harrington doesn’t slow down on the turns, comes close to bumping the sidewalk too many times for someone who’s been driving for as long as he has.

“Yeah, _carrots_ , but then Dustin — he was recording the whole thing — he said it was real _satisfying_ watching the wheel crush all this crap, so we just. Kept going. Made a _movie_.”

Billy notices, when Harrington opens all four windows of his car, that he’s high as _fuck_.

Mostly because he gets a good whiff when the wind blows in and rushes over his face, the aniseed, overly sweet smell of weed on fabric. Also because it’s cold enough inside of the car.

 _Also_ because the fucking _talk_ they’re having is a pretty good indicator, and Billy can’t help but wonder, briefly, if Harrington’s even telling the truth, because if he is, then that means he ditched the kid to go get stoned and left Billy fucking _waiting_ , for an even worse reason.

Anyway. Harrington’s a fucking burnout, no surprise there. You probably have to be to work at an ice cream parlor, hang out with year nines everyday _and_ have the balls to call it a gap year _._

Like any of that happens _voluntarily_.

The song Harrington picked keeps repeating the same sentence like a scratched vinyl, going, _Come through and let’s do what we do in our imagination_ , over and over, like a fever dream of what was once actual music.

“Sounds real _interesting_ , Harrington,” Billy says, finally, as they skid to a stop in front of his house, this colossal construction shielded by the woods. “Can’t wait to see it at Cannes.”

Harrington turns to him, shutting the engine off, and Billy forces himself to peel his eyes from the damp, glowing concrete in front of them to look back at Harrington.

He’s staring at Billy very seriously, a ghost of a raise to his eyebrows when he says, “It’s on his IGTV.”

And, _Jesus_.

Is this guy even _real_?

“Yeah,” Billy uncrosses his arms, reaching for the door handle. “As if I _follow_ that motherfucker,” and, just for good measure, he adds, “I don’t even _know_ who he is. What the fuck is a _Dustin_?”

He’s in Harrington’s guest bathroom, pumping copious amounts of this liquid soap called Bergamote 22 into his palm because he feels like it’s expensive, if the velvety texture and disturbingly realistic scent of grapefruit are anything to go by.

He realizes, with terrible, dizzying dread, that that’s what _Harrington_ smells like, most days, this musky, citrusy scent that is now, like.

 _All over_ Billy’s hands.

Whatever.

He’s just not going to think about it.

Billy washes the soap off until the water starts getting unbearably hot, breathes in slow and deep and reminisces about how orange blossom smelled like beneath a fresh layer of sweat and two-day old shampoo in the high school basketball court.

Harrington stopped showing up for practice, after.

Well.

After Billy kind of bashed his face in.

The fucker still looked _good_ , though. If anything, Billy fixed that ugly crook Byers put in his nose. If anything, Harrington should be _thanking_ him.

Billy has to physically push himself away from the sink when his reflection starts fogging up in the mirror.

His legs are heavy as he walks down the stairs, guided by the clattering of metal that leads him back to Harrington again, who’s bent over a huge drawer in the kitchen, rummaging inside.

“What are you doing?” Billy asks half-heartedly, letting himself lean against the counter.

“You mean what are _we_ doing,” Harrington lifts up a pan and a lid, one in each hand. “Spoiler alert: it’s popcorn.”

He’s got that dopey, smoked out look in his face, a squinty smile and a loopy jaw, and Billy _knows_ he doesn’t deserve it, isn’t really for him, but, _fuck_ , it _feels_ like it is, and that’s all that matters, right?

Harrington does some more puttering, opens a cabinet and picks up the olive oil.

Billy steps closer when he sees Harrington upend the bottle into a pan that’s already heating up.

“Two shots,” Harrington’s saying, watching intently as the slick stream of _too much olive oil_ disappears inside, “Of vodka.”

“Of _what_?”

“You know, like the vine,” he dumps some kernels into the pot, pauses, then scatters a few more.

They stand there staring at each other, the hot sizzle from the stovetop the only sound Billy can really make out.

Actually, maybe Harrington’s talking, and shit, Billy should probably be writing it down, that’s kind of what he’s there _for_ , but he just can’t bring himself to really tune in.

The first kernel pops between them, shooting up high up into the air and landing softly.

“What the _fuck_ was that, Billy?“ Harrington lurches, his reaction delayed because of the weed. His eyes are huge, and they were already so goddamn big before, making him look entranced, stuck, like he’s fallen into a war flashback.

Billy shoulders him out of the way to grab the lid of the pan. He hears the sharp uptick in Harrington’s breath, the way he seems to dissolve some of his bunched up tension when he folds forward.

“Ugh,” Harrington goes, gripping Billy’s belt, “ _Yes_ , good idea, a _shield—_ ”

“You fucking _forgot—_ “ Billy slams the top of the pan on. He sighs heavily, looks over at Harrington, annoyed. “Forgot the lid, bitch.”

Harrington deflates, leans a little bit into Billy as he lets out a breath.

“ _Bitch_ ,” Harrington echos, slapping a fanned out hand right in the middle of Billy’s chest. “Liked _pretty boy_ better.”

And, sure, Harrington’s high as a fucking kite, but.

Billy’s fairly sure he sees him _pout_.

“Yeah, well, too fucking bad,” he steps back, feels Harrington claw at his shirt for the briefest moment before his arm drops to his side.

Billy turns around, walks over to the couch and plops himself down, kicking his boots up on the coffee table.

They’re probably not allowed to eat in the living room, but Billy doesn’t give really a fuck, just likes to know they _shouldn’t_.

 _Loves_ to get his greasy little paws in _anything_ Steve Harrington.

When they had their fight and Billy worked his knuckles into Harrington’s face as easily as sinking them into sand?

It was an almost _religious_ experience.

It kept him fed and staved off for _months_ , the way he’d go a little dizzy seeing Harrington in the halls, sporting scattered bruises in the shape of fists; crimson, purple, yellow and pale green, like pansies on his face.

Right _now_ , though.

Right now Billy feels a little tense, again. A little on edge.

Looks over at Harrington, wobbling towards him with the bowl of popcorn and two beers, runs his eyes all over his ivory, porcelain skin, finding nothing besides moles for miles.

“You’re so fucking _pasty_ , my dude,” Billy goes, as _soon_ as Harrington settles down beside him, stealing a fistful of popcorn right from his lap. Billy pokes the beauty mark on his cheek. “Like a fucking _pancake_.”

Harrington wraps the bottom of his shirt around the neck of a beer, twists his fist until it’s opened.

Billy drinks in that newly available patch of skin. Tries not to think about the marks he could leave there.

“Yeah, whatever, _fuck_ you,” Harrington’s saying, the sound trapped inside the thick glass of the bottle. He swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he adds, “You think a year in Hawkins hasn’t affected _your_ Cali glow?”

Billy’s chewing the popcorn, reaching over Harrington for his own beer. He twists the cap off his bottle bare fingered and licks at his scabbed lip for some distraction, some grounding.

“Fuck, no, it hasn’t. You got a pool, pretty boy, don’t you use it?”

Harrington makes this dragged out _uh_ sound, like he’s thinking of a lie, even though Billy’s _seen_ his pool, at _least_ a few fucking times, now.

“I,” Harrington lets out a laugh, clears his throat as if he wasn’t expecting it to come out. “I _do_ , I just. I don’t really like water.”

“Weren’t you, like,” Billy stops Harrington from moving the plastic bowl full of popcorn from his lap to the center table, shoving his whole fist inside. “ _On_ the swim team?”

“How do you even _know_ that?” his tone is lazy, so far from accusing, and Billy knows he’s trying to deflect, for whatever reason, but still, it _stings_ to be seen like that, almost discovered.

Billy smirks, tries to sound dismissive when he says, “Um, I have a _yearbook_?”

“Okay, fine, whatever, you think the admission’s office is gonna be fucking thrilled by that?” Harrington goes, like the fucking asshole that he is, like Billy’s not here wasting his fucking time doing him a _favor_.

Billy feels his face fall, knows he’s too transparent for his own good. Knows, just as well, that he’s got a mean fucking mug, features locking up tight when someone says something he doesn’t _like_.

But Harrington, he’s _stupid_ , doesn’t lie down and roll over for Billy like he should.

He just stares back, like he’s not scared, like he could fucking _take_ Billy, which they both know it’s not true.

“I don’t know, Harrington,” Billy sucks his teeth and grazes the sole of his boot on the edge of the table, scraping off a fat line of dirt onto it. “Sounds like there’s a _story_ , there.”

“Fuck off, asshole,” he pushes a little notepad towards Billy, slaps a pen down on top. “Get to work or get fucking _lost_.”

He stalls, waits to see if Harrington shrivels up, takes it back, but nothing happens, Harrington doesn’t even _look_ at him, so.

Billy sniffs, scrunching up a nostril. Reaches back to pull the pencil that’s holding his bun together, uses it to scribble down the date on the top right corner of the page.

“Alright,” he goes. “So what’s this fucking essay about, anyway?”

**Author's Note:**

> chapter title from Hit Me Up - Omar Apollo
> 
> couldn't get this up in time for Thanks/Friendsgiving but hopefully those vibes are still very much alive in your heads? 
> 
> thank you for reading!


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